Die DEMONS

Garrosh, a living avalanche of brown fury, unleashed a primal war-shout that made the very air crackle. Holy Light, scorching and righteous, exploded from him, turning him into a blinding beacon of vengeance.

"DEMONS! TASTE THE UNYIELDING WRATH OF THE HORDE! FOR HONOR! FOR GLORY!"

In a terrifying echo of his old man's earlier heroics, the young Hellscream (Grom, himself!) burst from the earth on wings of pure, incandescent light, a furious bolt aimed squarely at the last wretched fel energy jammer!

CRACK!

No accident. No fluke. Just a perfectly placed, utterly brutal swing of an orcish axe. The towering, festering column of fel energy shrieked its last, bisected by raw, righteous power.

"YOU DARE?! MY TWO FAVORITE TOYS! BLAST IT ALL TO THE VOID!" shrieked Nora, the self-proclaimed Mother of Flame. As a high priestess of Sargeras, a revered member of the Coven of Destroyers, she answered only to the Dark Titan himself. Not even the grand lieutenants Kil'jaeden or Archimonde could simply waltz in and boss her around. Arrogance was her birthright, humiliation her alien concept. And yet, here it was, staring back at her from the defiant, axe-wielding Hellscreams. Fear, a cold, unfamiliar tendril, slithered into her eyes.

Garrosh's pure Holy Light was a searing balm, a torment to her fel-tainted flesh, but it paled before the primal, gut-wrenching threat of the old orc's axe.

"He can actually wound me!" a whisper of genuine terror escaped her.

"Warrior," the Flame Mistress purred, her voice dripping with false honey, "why resist the inevitable? Why defy the might of the Burning Legion? You possess… immense potential. Join us, and the Dark Titan Sargeras himself will grant you power beyond your wildest dreams!" Her tone shifted, a desperate gambit as she unleashed a torrent of insidious soul magic, clawing at the minds of the two Hellscreams, seeking a foothold to snatch their very essences.

"PUT AWAY YOUR UGLY FACE, YOU STINKIN' DEMON!" Grom snarled, his eyes blazing, mind a fortress of iron will. "TO ME, EVEN THE MANGY SHE-WOLVES OF NAGRAND ARE MORE APPEALING THAN YOUR GRIMY HIDE!" He didn't just ignore her psychic assault; he spat on it, tossed it aside like a withered leaf, and then personally delivered a verbal beatdown that would make a gronn blush.

"WHAAAT?!" The Witch of Destruction shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated outrage.

PROVOKED?! She didn't just feel provoked; she felt as though her very existence had been smeared with Orcish dung! Nora, the Mother of Flame, had traversed countless stars, personally twisted the wills of Titans, and never once suffered such a grievous, soul-shaking humiliation!

"TEAR THEM TO PIECES! NOW!" Nora screeched, her twisted mental power useless against the Hellscreams, but potent enough to whip her lesser demonic lackeys into a frenzy. The very same demons who had been quivering in their boots after Grom's performance now surged forward, as if injected with a potent draught of fel-infused zeal, howling like banshees craving fresh souls!

"Hmph! Devil, have you forgotten me?!" A booming voice, laced with thunder, cut through the din.

From the ravaged battlefield, the exhausted Eonar, the Life-Binder herself, seized the precious, fleeting moment. A deep, revitalizing breath, and a whisper of her immense power flowed back into her.

"I remember you, Thorim. Son of the Pantheon! Ah, yes, Khaz'goroth's handiwork, given the dominion over storm and sky, yes?" the Mother of Flame mused, her eyes narrowing.

Thorim, the mighty keeper, now a streaking blue lightning bolt, slammed into the ground beside the titanic Life-Binder. "Yes, great Mother Eonar! It was the Pantheon that forged me, granting me this power to be a guardian of Azeroth! And now, as Azeroth's nascent soul stirs, Highlord Galen, the Alliance's own beacon, has rallied this very force to shatter your chains!"

"We have a full fleet, Mother, blotting out the sky above this very planet!"

"I sensed it!" Eonar's colossal face softened with a flicker of satisfaction. "You are indeed formidable. Now, let us remind these invaders of their folly!" The Life-Binder lifted her ornate Scepter of Eonar, and a colossal wave of vibrant life energy erupted, washing over every single Honored Orc and Draenei warrior present, healing wounds, mending bones, and reigniting their fighting spirit!

As the Pantheon's most formidable healer and supporter, Eonar's true might was unleashed only when she had allies to protect. This wasn't about summoning glorified houseplants; this was about turning the tide of war!

FIGHT!

Even with Eonar's incredible intervention, the Honored Orcs had paid a bloody price, nearly half their number falling in the brutal, unrelenting melee. Yet, the cost was not in vain. In the battered Chamber of Life, only a handful of lesser demons now remained, cowering and broken. The Burning Legion's vanguard had been utterly decimated, reduced to ashes, with only the vainglorious Mother of Flame left standing amidst the carnage.

Seeing her glorious, humiliating defeat looming, the Mother of Flame shrieked, spun on her heel, and tore open a gaping, emerald-green fel energy portal!

"DON'T YOU DARE SCURRY, YOU COWARDLY FIEND!" Thorim roared, his body a crackling dynamo of pure, vibrating blue lightning, hurtling toward the shimmering maw of the gateway!

As the Mother of Flame caught sight of the thunderous behemoth bearing down on her, her "enchanting" visage contorted into a mask of pure terror. With a desperate, final surge of twisted mental power, she unleashed a wave of desperate command, forcing the last few pathetic demons surrounding her to unfurl their leathery wings and launch themselves directly into Thorim's path, a futile, fleshy shield!

"DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!" Thorim seethed, his heart a hammer against his ribs. This was infuriating! A thousand Legion foot soldiers were worth less than a single, high-ranking demon commander! He had intended to save the Life-Binder and land a crushing blow to the Legion, carving a smoother path for future counterattacks.

But no. The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. The Witch of Destruction, having used her pathetic pawns as a desperate distraction, shot Thorim one last, venomous glare, a promise of future torment, before leaping headfirst into the swirling emerald abyss without so much as a moment's hesitation!

"GHRAAAAH!"

The very next instant, the air itself screamed as Thorim's thunderous fury, denied its true prey, lashed out like a cornered beast. The 'demons' who had been forced to their pathetic sacrifice were instantly incinerated, collapsing into smoking, charred heaps under the unleashed wrath of the King of Thunder.

"Do not let such trivial anger blind you, Thorim." A voice, gentle yet profound, resonated directly in Thorim's agitated mind. "The Titans' gifts have bestowed upon you immense power, yet you, much like your brother Loken, struggle with the true mastery of thunder."

Thorim, his furious scowl still etched onto his titanic face, spun at the familiar, resonant voice. The great door to the Chamber of Life, now bathed in a newfound, triumphant light, swung open. Highlord Galen, followed by the stoic Hodir and a detachment of Draenor's finest, marched in, a welcome sight.

"Great Lord… you're here?!" Thorim boomed, a hint of genuine surprise in his voice.

Galen offered a calm, almost knowing smile. "When you encountered the Legion's vanguard, Thorim, Hodir had already done the sensible thing and sent word back to Azeroth. Someone had to."

Compared to the hot-headed, thunder-punching demigod, Galen definitely preferred the calculated strength and strategic mind of Hodir. Still, Hodir was only marginally less… problematic than Thorim. Galen sighed inwardly. He wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of commanding the glorified, over-engineered combat AIs that were the Ulduar guardians. Immense power, yes, but gaping personality flaws the size of an Old God's appetite.

As these delightful thoughts drifted through Galen's mind, his gaze settled on the colossal, bronze form of the Life-Binder herself, Eonar, the venerable Mother of all creation within the Pantheon.

Led by the ever-dependable Hodir, Galen approached Eonar with an expression of calm deference. Thorim, still muttering about missed opportunities, fell in alongside them.

As the trio neared, the Creator, with a gentle sweep of her massive hand, bid the ancient, vigilant flora guarding her to part. Finally, they stood before Eonar.

"Thank you for your timely intervention, my children," Eonar breathed, her voice a deep, ancient melody of gratitude. "Had you not, the Burning Legion would surely have claimed me." A tremor ran through the great Titan. "And once my brothers and sisters witnessed my capture, they would lose all hope, crumbling one by one into Sargeras's wretched grasp!"

As the Creator spoke, a swell of profound admiration began to rise within both Thorim and Hodir, a natural response to the Life-Binder's immense presence. But just as swiftly, an inexplicable, alien force descended, squashing the emotion flat, leaving them with an unsettling sense of hollowness, as if a vital spark had been extinguished.

"Goddess," Hodir stated, ever the pragmatist, "our contribution is but a fleeting spark. The one who truly ripped you from the Legion's grasp, the true savior, stands before you: Highlord Galen!"